


goodnight, darling (though this may as well be good bye)

by balancingprecariouslyontheedge



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Suicide, Trigger Warning inside, but like, it's angsty, it's not any of the boys, yet another older work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 19:45:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balancingprecariouslyontheedge/pseuds/balancingprecariouslyontheedge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*previously on tumblr; trigger warning*</p><p>A low blow slices through Zayn's walls as though they were air. His boys pick up the pieces, and his sister glues them back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	goodnight, darling (though this may as well be good bye)

**Author's Note:**

> An older fix based on an anon prompt. There is suicide mentioned a few times, so if that may trigger you, please keep your health in mind and don't keep reading.

Dull, lifeless eyes stared disinterestedly as the fragile wine glass slipped from his loose grasp, crashing onto the ground and shattering into a million and one pieces that scattered all across the crisp, white, tiled floor. His thin fingers remained in a rounded position, as if still holding the glass. Zayn blinked once, before leading his weary head fall back to rest against the cabinet with a dull thud. The spidery hand that had once clutched the wine glass fell limp onto the cold floor, where a jagged shard of glass embedded itself into the papery skin of skin of his palm. Zayn’s eyes moved to watch in a sadistic fascination as the crimson liquid slowly trickled from the wound and begun to pool around his hand. But he didn’t feel so much as a pinch, even as the dagger-like glass buried itself deeper in his skin. Zayn’s smooth eyelids drooped downwards, his impossibly long, dark eyelashes just barely touching his sunken face.  
Zayn was blissfully numb. Blessed liquor flowed in copious amounts through his veins, nearly enough to substitute his blood. A pleasant buzz filled his alcohol filled head, and his limbs felt as though they were made of lead trying to move through honey.  
A single, barren light bulb flickered over head, casting an eerie glow over the kitchen. The light jumped across the fragments of glittering glass that littered the ground, shining bright enough to make Zayn’s eyes ache. Shadows of inanimate objects seemed to dance around him in mocking circle, taunting him. The horrid stench of the mile high stack of dirty dishes of the counter mingled with the equally disgusting smell of vomit, creating a gag mix that tainted the frigid air. The wooden chairs that usually encircled the kitchen table were haphazardly sprawled over the floor in various awkward positions.  
Forcing his tired eyelids to stay up, Zayn’s dull gaze fell upon his reflection in the steel dish washer.  
His dirty hair carelessly flopped over his eyes, matted down to his sticky forehead. A single bead of sweat that glistened in the light trickled down his the side of his sunken in face. His cheekbones were even more prominent, sharp enough to kill. The usually mirth filled coffee colored eyes were a lifeless, white washed, muted shade of brown. Scenes of endless gore and bloodshed flashed through them like a never ending horror movie, and something deep within each pupil seemed cracked in half. Broken nearly beyond repair. His collar bones jutted out obscenely, skin stretched tin over them. Multiple stains stood out starkly against his torn, over sized, faded white tee shirt that hung off his hunched frame like elephant skin. If he lifted the shirt up, Zayn could count his own ribs. The normally tanned skin had taken on a sickening whitish pallor, the bluish veins that snaked through his body clearly visible.  
Zayn heavy eyelids pulled shut once again, unable to bear another glance at his deteriorated body. A bitter, crackling laugh the bordered insane escaped from his cracked, chapped lips, followed by a minuscule trickled of blood from the very corner of his dried up mouth. The haunted laugh echoed through the flat, undoubtedly giving shudders to whomever may have heard.

The media could hardly call him hot now.

The mere thought of the bastards called the media was enough for the tiniest spark of anger to break through his numb haze. If Zayn ever was graced with the opportunity of coming across them, he’d wrap his hands around every one of their necks and watch the life flee their eyes. The rumors that they sprouted, the lies they spread, the sheer amount off hell they’d put everyone through was astonishing. But Zayn had gotten used to it, and pushed apart of him aside which was reserved for taking the blows from the press. Until those fuckers had gone too far out of line and closed in like a pack of deranged hyenas and finally pushed someone over the proverbial edge because of the bullshit they made up to keep things interesting.  
Zayn clenched and unclenched end his uninjured fist, unkempt fingernails digging into the parchment like skin and leaving tiny half moon marks. A surge of pure and utter rage shoved aside his plastic euphoria and took hold of his battered body.  
Those goddamned motherfuckers had done it. Every few hours there would be a new ridiculous rumor about him cheating on girlfriends he never had to begin with, but when they’d finally figured out they the lies they cooked up didn’t faze him, the media got more and more creative and more and more ludicrous. Now, each rumor was painstakingly pieced together. Bit by bit, they were created, designed to tear Zayn to shreds. In one final, ditch attempt to penetrate the virtually impenetrable brick walls that he had built, the media abruptly changed their target with a devious plan that backfired profoundly. They’d struck somewhere where they knew it would wreck him. But the unforeseen consequences arose when Zayn received the call, the wretched call, in which his hysterical, sobbing mother had shrieked that Waliyha’s body was hung from the ceiling fan with a kicked over chair a few feet away.  
The confusion, the disbelief, the denial, the sheer amount of utterly overwhelming grief had wrapped around Zayn and pulled him into a downward spiral filled with anguish and agony.

Waliyha was dead. His little sister, his baby sister was dead. Gone. Deceased. Never coming back. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.  
And what’s worse was that she had taken her own life, the life that had been cruelly ripped away from her by blood thirsty paparazzi who would do anything to have a story that made a few quid. The gruesome, appalling rumors that had been invented as jabs towards Zayn had ended up pulling Waliyha down under until she drowned, suffocating her until she couldn’t breathe. Clawing at get until she couldn’t take it anymore.  
And shit, she’d been fifteen years old. Her entire long life had been laid out in front of her, and it was snatched away by the greedy little hands of the press.

And now she was gone. Waliyha had killed herself, and Zayn couldn’t find anyone else at fault besides himself. It was him who had auditioned for the X Factor, him who had gotten third place in a band of mates who quickly became something more, him who had risen to fame faster than anyone could’ve fathomed. And it was him who the media wanted crush under their boot, just for the pleasure of seeing how mental they could drive him.

He should’ve known they’d pounce on his family sooner or later.

Should’ve. There were a lot of thing Zayn should’ve done. He should’ve warned his family. Should’ve done more press with Perrie to keep the media happy and occupied. Should’ve been a better brother. He should’ve done a shitload of things. He could’ve and would’ve done them, too.

But, he didn’t.

And now it’s been six days since Zayn dropped his phone and disappeared off the face of the Earth, off to and old flat that he hadn’t told another living soul about. Not even his boyfriends.  
Six days later and he’s sat on the kitchen floor, drowning himself in whatever he could find, whether it be his melancholy, woeful emotions, or alcohol. As for now, Zayn found temporary solace at the bottom of the countless smashed glass bottles that decorated the stiff, tiled floor.  
He’s destroying himself, inside and out and he knows it. And he couldn’t bring himself to give a single damn about it.

Fuck, he was tired.

Zayn suddenly found holding the weight of his head upright too much, and let it loll to the side. It came to rest on his shoulder, and he stayed limp on the kitchen floor.  
For once, it’s utterly silent. But obviously, the moment he realized this and begun to enjoy it, it was ruined.  
It happened like the foamy waves crash on the grainy sand at the beach. Faint at first, slowly building up intensity until it grew taller and larger, filling up its true potential until it towered over everything and overflowed its full capacity and surged forward, crashing onto the land with enough force to make the Earth vibrate and fucking hell, he’s never heard silence really quite this loud. The sinister voices in his head that had previously been nothing more than hushed mumblings and murmurs in the murky outskirts of his mind suddenly gained vigor and gradually grew louder and louder until it became a thunderous, nearly deafening roar; a tumult of hissing and cackling voices that were all clamoring for his attention until they were screaming and screeching and howling and wailed and shrieking at him. Their words came so rapidly that they jumbled together in one huge tangle of sounds and horrible noises and–  
“I’M SORRY!” Zayn finally shouted, clamping his small hands over his ear and curling into the smallest ball imaginable upon the bed of broken glass.  
“PLEASE!” He screamed desperately, hope draining from his words and he clawed at his head, trying to get the voices to just stop before his head maxed out and exploded.  
“I’M SORRY, WALIYHA NOW MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE!” Zayn writhed on the floor in anguish an agony, his features twisted beyond recognition. His head thwacked against the floor, and the yowling voices, impossible as it seemed, quadrupled in intensity. Black splotches appeared in his blurred vision, and Zayn slowly stopped wriggling. In the distance, he swore he heard familiar voice and a door slamming open, but he gave up. Zayn’s body trembled and shook and he remained in his curled up position, grasping his head tightly to keep it from spontaneously combusting. Tears formed rivulets down his hollowed face, pooling on the ground and his body quavered.  
“I’m sorry Wali,” were the last words that tumbled from the entangled mass of letters and sounds trapped behind his lips. Zayn’s last conscious thoughts were a frantic, tearful shriek of,  
“ZAYN!” and a pair of warm, muscled arms wrapping themselves loosely around him before the wailing voices dragged him over the edge of the abyss, into a dismal darkness.

 

“–pression,”  
“–yn,”  
“–herapy,”  
“–liyha,”  
“–amily,”  
“-o, no, no,”

Many words swirled through the air as Zayn finally broke through the tight clutches of his nightmares and noticed that the wretched voices had thankfully been muted. He faintly noticed that his name had come up in whatever conversation was going on above, but that’s where his senses stopped. It felt as if his body had short circuited, and now it was totally, one hundred and one percent fried. A vague thought that he should be worried briefly flashed through his mind, but it quickly evaporated. His limbs felt like dead weights attached to his body, and they were the only thing that kept him from floating and becoming suspended in the the peaceful haze between sleep and waking up. A few moments later than he should’ve, Zayn felt the slight vibrating beneath him and came to the conclusion that he was on a car.  
Hushed voices that were definitely not in his head spoke around him, and Zayn finally regained enough consciousness to piece the words into broken sentences.  
“-ayn… no… -ot performing…don’t give a fuck…” He vaguely labelled this as Louis.  
“–an’t just stop…talked to Simon…-aul said…” That would be Liam. Zayn’s eyelashes felt as if someone attached weights to them, and his mind was becoming more sluggish, retreating back into the shadows created by sleep. But yet, his boyfriends were talking about him, and Zayn, though he liked to think he wasn’t nosy, really wanted to know what they were saying. But his lethargic mind refused to let him string together sentences with the words they were saying.  
“-is sister is fucking dead… -ll their fault…-ourse he doesn’t want to…-dest are cunts..” Niall’s Irish accent became more discernible through his words as he got more agitated.  
“-alm down…-es I know…-elp him…–rapy won’t help… has to to be us…–pression,” And Zayn couldn’t help it. Harry’s drawn out, drawling voice opened up the gates that let sleep flood in, and Zayn was out like a light before he could here any more, left alone with dreams of the many possible outcomes of that conversation.

 

The next time Zayn roused from his slumber, the first thing he observed was that he was warm. The kind of warm that comes with drinking hot chocolate or a nice cuppa. The kind that came with Niall’s blinding smiles, Liam’s embrace, Louis’s cuddles, or Harry’s lazy grins, complete with dimples deeper than the Grand Canyon. The kind of warm the sprouts in ones heart and blossoms, reaching out its tendrils to encase an entire body with warmth and contentment.  
Whenever Zayn was this warm, everything else became totally insignificant, and he couldn’t recall why he hadn’t been like this earlier. In all honesty, he really didn’t want to remember.  
Something that radiated a gentle heat shifted from beside him, and Zayn moved his head slightly; only to find his face buried in a nest of unruly curls that smelled like coconut. Inhaling deeply, Zayn relished the intoxicating scent of coconut that was just so Harry. He swore he knew someone who gave of the same aroma, except with the slightest hint of vanilla and cinnamon and... oh. Right.

Waliyha had smelled like that.

The devastating memories came back so fast, Zayn wondered how he could’ve possibly forgotten them in the first place. Every last drop of the uplifting warmth was drained from his fatigued body, replaced with the same numbness from what Zayn assumed was last night. The same mantra that had driven him mad yesterday replayed through his brain, flashing brightly like a neon billboard.

Waliyha’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

It dragged the corners of Zayn’s upturned lips down into a deep pout as he succumbed to the droning chant that took over his thoughts.  
His sudden pessimistic thoughts seemed to poison the comfortable atmosphere settled over the sleeping jumble of his boyfriends, and Zayn felt like he was tainting something beautiful with haunted memories of long dark hair, pretty pale skin and bhaaaaaiii, sod off. The voice sounded so frighteningly identical to Waliyha’s that Zayn stared off at the wall, not see much of anything besides a distorted blob while trying to shake his dead sister’s irritated voice out of his head.  
His mind swirled i a downward spiral as his sister’s complaints and croons and compliments resounded through his brain, loud enough to make his ears ring.  
’Ammi, bhai stole my lipstick,’  
‘Zayn, go bother Saffa,’  
'For god’s sake Zayn, stop scaring off my boyfriends,’  
'Turn off your bloody music,’  
'Stop shaking bhai, it’s just an audition. I’ll be with you the whole time…’  
'I’ll be with you the whole time.’  
'I’ll be with you,’

'I’ll be with you,’

“Stop,” Zayn hissed, voice distressed clamping his hands down over his ears. Louis mumbled and stirred in his sleep, so he quickly sealed his lips and clenched his eyes shut, trying to block out Waliyha’s voice that was nearly unbearable God he needed to get out of there before her booming voice or his thunderous thoughts cruelly awoke his boyfriends.  
Zayn attempted to be cautious as he picked his way out of the entangled limbs and snoring faces, but her voice was roaring to the point where it felt like his ears were dripping blood; like he could almost feel the cool, thick, crimson liquid sliding down his neck. Waliyha’s croons became more and more vehement, urging Zayn to flee the room until he was tripping over his fatigued limbs in his haste to escape.  
Panting and gasping for precious oxygen, Zayn closed the door with a soft 'click’ before bracing his hands on his knees, trying to regain some semblance of control as his departed sister’s voice made a retreat from his mind, crawling back into his previously fond memories of her that had now turned bitter.  
Letting out a long, blowy breath, Zayn made an effort to stand up straight and figure where to go from there.

It didn’t work.

The moment Zayn was partially upright, an abrupt, unforeseen wave of nausea and dizziness struck, causing his vision to in and out of focus. He spun in helpless circles as his mind went haywire faster than his vision, and the suddenly, all he could see were recollections of happier times filled with painfully bright smiles and Waliyha, her face making a familiar pang of grief erupt in his chest. One moment he as chasing her around the local park, gleefully tackling her to the ground as her protesting giggles filled the air, and the next second it’s her twelfth birthday and she was hugging him tightly, a new phone clutched tightly in her hand.  
Zayn stuck his hands house in a last ditch attempt to keep two feet planted firmly on the ground, despairing as he flew higher and higher until the ground was just barely in sight. Soon, his back hit solid wall with a resounding 'thump’, and if they weren’t already awake, Harry, Louis, Liam, and Niall had to be out of bed by now with all the racket he was causing. His drained, worn out body slowly slid to the cool, hardwood floor, hot chocolate colored eyes clenched shut as wet, salty droplets sprang up behind them.  
The rather odd thing was, Zayn hadn’t properly broken down the way he should have since his mother had tearfully handed over the dreadful news. There had been a few tears, a few wet eyes, the odd sob, but he’d never not been able to staunch an endless flow of tears. But, they were there, crashing against the floodgates behind his eyelids, begging to be let out.

Once they started, Zayn couldn’t see that they’d ever stop.

But the more he tried to force those proverbial floodgates shut, the more his mind vehemently screamed at him, and suddenly her voice was back, and shit, this was it. End of the line.

 

“You can’t catch me,” Waliyha sneered in the way that only eight year olds were capable.

Her voice was crystal clear, and Zayn was having trouble making out the blurred line between reality and his poignant memories.

Zayn grinned cheekily.  
“Oh yeah? Watch me, you little bugger,” With an over dramatic battle cry, he charged after his sister. Her childish, melodious giggles were carried around by the wind, and no one could stop the smile that tugged at their lips.  
“Zayn!” She shrieked as he grabbed her around the middle and spun her around, and wow, that was what happiness felt like.

And then Waliyha’s ten.

“Waliyha?” Zayn called softly, settling down on the park bench next to his sister, leaving a few inches of space between them. She sniffled wetly, not lifting her head out from between her knees. Her dark hair splayed over her back and draped down to where her arms encircled her legs.  
“G'way,” She tried to sound menacing, tried to intimidate him, but she only succeeded it letting out another wet sob.  
“Okay,” Zayn agreed, staying exactly where he was. They sat there for some time, watching the autumn leaves spiral down from ancient trees like a tornado of faded reds and blinding yellows, burnt oranges and crumbling browns. The sky erupted in brilliant fireworks of pinks, oranges, yellows, purples, and blues. Waliyha chose this moment to shakily pull her head up to rest her chin atop her knees.  
“They called me 'Paki,’” she choked out, the last word half heartedly filled with venom. “I got mad at this kid, and he asked if 'all I knew how to do was blow shit up because I was a stupid Paki,’” Zayn felt his blood bubbling and boiling underneath his skin, rage overflowing his veins until it felt like they would burst. His fist clenched, and his face contorted because some illiterate, ignorant people couldn't see farther than the color of their skin. Not to mention the fact that they were picking a a ten year old girl. But Zayn contained his immense irritation for the sake of his still tearful sister.  
“Did you do anything after that?” He asked cautiously, and Waliyha balled her fists and wiped her eyes.  
“I accidentally hit him with my locker door,” she muttered, red shading the back of her neck and cheeks. And Zayn honestly couldn’t help it. He threw his head back, chortling and laughing, amusement crossing his face.  
“The asshole had that coming, bloody prick,” Waliyha squeaked at the vulgar terms, and Zayn shrugged, still laughing.  
“You said shit,” He reminded, and Waliyha looked at him oddly before chuckling wetly.  
Soon enough, she was sat right next to him, still laughing as the sun sank lower and lower. And that was what amusement felt like.

Finally, Waliyha’s twelve and this one was almost painful.

“Zayn, jaanu, get up! We have to leave, jaan. The girls are all ready. Go change, quickly now,” His mother’s normally kind, soothing voice was unwelcome for once because Zayn didn’t budge. He didn’t want to move.  
“I don’t want to go, Ammi. I told you,” he groaned thirdly into his pillow, barely cracking an eyelid. His mum sighed.  
“Zayn Javadd, if you don’t get your arse downstairs within the next five minutes, I will take all your books away,” She threatened, and no doubt she would carry through. This was hardly fair, Zayn though, he hadn’t wanted to go for the audition but his mum had gone and signed him up anyway, despite his protests of not being nearly good enough. His mother stalked out of the room, and Zayn sighed. He really, really liked his books, but he really, really, really didn’t want to make a fool of himself on live television.  
Zayn sensed another person entering his room. Assuming it was his mother, he groaned,  
“Ammmmmmiiii,” A dry chuckle that most definitely wasn’t his mothers was his response.  
“Pretty sure I’m not your mum,” Waliyha’s sarcastic voice said, and Zayn sighed.  
“The hell do you want?” He asked tiredly into his pillow, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep.  
“Nothing,” Her voice was surprisingly soft, even though Zayn had expected her to be taking the piss out of him for not having any balls. “Just wanted to ask why you don’t want to go.” Why didn’t he want to go? Now that he actually shuffled through his brain, he had a significant difficulty finding a reason. Finally, he settled on the one major factor that barred him from doing much of anything.  
“I guess… I don’t know… I guess I’m scared,” That was a bit hard to say to his little sister. “I’m scared that they’ll tell me I’m not good enough. And then everyone will know, because this is the goddamn X Factor. Millions of people are going to watch three important people say I’ll never amount to anything.” Those damn insecurities that had pestered him, small whispers in the back of his brain always telling him how he wasn’t good enough. That he’d never be good enough. Worthless, they’d spat. Good-for-nothing.  
And now he’s just told one of the people he was supposed to protect from the cruel world how small and truly terrified he really was.  
Zayn felt his neck and face redden out of shame, waiting for the inevitable taunts and teases and 'you’re being stupid.’ Instead, Waliyha stayed quiet and sat down on the floor next to his bed.  
“It’s okay to be scared, Zayn,” Those word seemed surreal, and Zayn could hardly believe Waliyha had uttered them.  
“But I’m afraid of so many things,” He protested in a self deprecating tone that made Waliyha wince. “And I shouldn’t be. I’m supposed to be big and strong, keep you safe. But I’m just Zayn, the small boy who was too scared to do anything.” He was met with silence as Waliyha exhaled deeply.  
“Well, I think just Zayn is a pretty damn good person to be,” She said vehemently, turning to look him in the eyes. This left Zayn to wonder, when had she grown up to become so smart.  
“Trust me, you’re big and strong, just not the same way as other lads. You’ll still beat up any bloke who fancies me, and you still hold Safaa’s hand when we cross the street. And you care, bhai. All those little things you do, trying to keep us safe and happy, we notice. You don’t have to have a ten pack and an ego, and I’m glad that you don’t. You’re honestly the best brother a girl could want, Zaynie,” Waliyha paused for her breath before continuing her heated rant.  
“You’ve always been more than good enough, and if Simon Cowell doesn’t see that, even though he will, he’s missing out. You’re going to knock 'em all dead, Zayn, and you’ll come home bigger than Chris Brown or Usher, Bob Marley, even Justin Bieber. I know it.” Waliyha a fire blazing in her eyes as she spoke, and Zayn listened, tears making his eyes glisten. Oh, how she’d matured. He had to go and give it a try, even if it was just for her. After all, he owed her that much.  
“Just don’t forget us, yeah? When you’re all big and famous, make sure your head can still get through the door. Otherwise I’ll knock you down to size,” Waliyha chipped,  
playfully, a small grin playing on her features. Zayn returned it before sitting up and pulling her in for a tight hug, ruffling her hair. She shrieked, batting his hands away. Standing up and smoothing out her shirt, she smirked.  
“Get your lazy ass downstairs, bhai,” Zayn stuck his tongue out at her retreating form, mind buzzing.  
He supposed to her, he’d always be good enough.  
And that was what love felt like.

Zayn came back from the recesses mind to realize two things: one, he’s crying, soundlessly (or maybe he just can’t hear) and two, he’s wrapped up in someone arms, a hot breath tickling his ear. They might be trying to speak to him but he honestly couldn’t hear or see much more than blotches and colorful shapes blurred together. Until he sees Waliyha.  
She’s hauntingly beautiful, literally. Beautiful in the sort of way that a brother would call his anxious sister the night of a date or dance. And she’s translucent; Zayn could faintly make out an old picture hanging on the wall through her stomach. Her feet just barely glance of the ground, like she’s floating. An invisible breeze swept through her hair, making in flow all in the same direction like in all of those cheesy, Bollywood romance movies she’d been so fond of. Her eyes held a thousand stories that had been ripped away from her, but her mouth still formed the small, mysterious smile that always had boys struck to know more.  
“Zayn,” Her voice was nothing more than a gentle whisper, like a secret. An eerie smoke floating up through the floorboards, though he seemed to be the only one who noticed. But even Zayn could hardly look away, entranced with the wispy ghost that was his sister. Afraid to move or speak, in fear that she’d dissipate with a snap.  
“Zayn,” Waliyha’s voice was still soft, warm even. But it was more commanding, demanding him to pay attention.  
“I’ll always be with you,” She murmured, like what felt like so many years ago. He remembered nearly pissing himself out of fear, and her not teasing him about it for once. Because she knew. “I promise.” She held out her pinkie, which Zayn hesitantly entwined with his own. Promises were strange things. They were made of glass, yet written in stone. So fragile, so small, so easy to shatter. Yet they were burned forever into someone’s soul, always lit up somewhere deep with a person’s mind, not easy to remember but not totally forgotten. As his thoughts wondered, Zayn realized he had not yet pull apart their interlocked pinkie. He gazed up, and Waliyha stared at him, straight in the eyes.  
“Let go,” She whispered, “You need to let go, and I’ll always be right here.” Suddenly, the faint breeze picked up, shaking up her image.  
“Let go, bhai,” This time her tone was almost pleading.

“Just let go,” And Zayn watched as her molecules were scattered by the wind, as her face slowly crumbed, and he did the one thing he could think of.

Zayn released her pinkie and let go.

The last image permanently burned into Zayn’s memory was her serene smile and minute wink, before she dissolved into a cloud of hazy smoke. The cloud formed a funnel and zipped straight through him, right where his heart was, leaving him breathless and clawing for air.  
Once he’d regained his breath, Zayn felt oddly light, like a huge burden had disintegrated from his weary shoulders. A part of him was missing, but it didn’t sting that deep or that much anymore. He felt like he could maybe, just maybe, relax for a moment. That he could close his eyes and drift off to dreams that weren’t plagued by night terrors. The previously raging storm in his head had pacified slightly, helping him think clearly. Zayn still felt the loss, but he didn’t feel like he’d died and come back from hell anymore, which was nice. And this might have been what peace felt like. Or maybe just letting go.  
“Sshhh, sshhh, c'mon babe, just match your breathing with mine, yeah?” Right, his boyfriends were still there, and none of them looked as if they’d noticed the exchange. The sole center of their attention was currently him, rubbing his back, grasping his hand, running nimble fingers through his hair, and whispering sweet nothings in his ears. Finally, Zayn allowed himself to melt in Liam’s long arms, letting Louis’s calloused thumb swipe away stray tears. Niall rubbing warming circles on the back of his hand, while Liam murmured heartfelt reassurances in his ear. The warmth that Zayn had felt earlier, just mere seconds after waking up buried in the pile of Louis, Niall, Liam, and Harry returned, and his eyelids drooped ever so slightly…

 

Waliyha Malik may have been dead, but Zayn Malik certainly wasn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Good? Or nah?? xxx


End file.
